Read Online Sunrise Over Fallujah by Walter Dean Myers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Walter Dean Myers
Tags: Fiction
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gingerly put the helmet over Owensâs bandage. There were wounded civilians, men, women, and children, in the café. The worst off were on stretchers along the wall and our medical people looked at them. We were told to search everybody. The guys searched the males, and Marla and the female medics searched the women. They didnât have weapons.
Only one person had been shot. All the others had either been burned or hit with shrapnel or flying debris. A thin brown man, bald on top, looked closest to dying but had no visible wounds except for a few spots of blood under his nose. An Iraqi who spoke English said that the man had been sitting on a folding chairwhen a shell hit down the street and the shock of it had picked him up off his chair and thrown him against a wall.
Some of the other wounds were terrible. An old man was lying in a corner on his back. He had a string of beads draped across his palm. His hand and the beads shook uncontrollably. The front of his robe was covered with more blood than anybody was supposed to lose. When the beads fell from his hand I bent over, picked them up, held his wrist, and draped them over his fingers. The old man looked up at me. I donât know if he could see me clearly or not, but he looked.
âBirdy, give me a hand,â Marla called.
She had a little girl, maybe eight or nine, whose leg was bloodied. We carried her over to the aid station our people had set up and laid her on the ground. The front of the little dress she was wearing, it might have been her nightgown, was covered with blood. Marla lifted it to see if the girl was hurt bad. She was. An angry wound seeped blood diagonally across her small chest.
None of it was good. I didnât want to be connected with the wounds, or with the dying. It all looked so much better in the training films, when the figures were just silhouettes flickering across a screen. When it was all just a video game. But up close, the smell of blood was connected with real people. I knew that many of them wouldnât make it. They would be dead before the night came, or surely by the next morning.
Then it was noon and somebody said that the 3 rd was serving hot food down the street. There was still the sound of sporadicgunfire, but it seemed farther away. I looked for Marla and Jonesy and asked if they wanted to go get something to eat. Jonesy did but Marla wanted to help the medics. I thought of staying, too, but I went for breakfast instead.
We lined up with the guys from the 3 rd , had scrambled eggs and sausages. The military cooks were actually using a local Iraqi guy to help them. Me and Jonesy sat down and ate. We took some eggs and coffee back to Marla. Her face was pale with the strain of the work. She ate the eggs on the edge of a cot in which an Iraqi woman was lying. The woman, dressed in black, was facing the wall.
âShe okay?â I asked Marla.
âWhat do you think?â she answered.
The portable toilet facilities stunk and the small cabin was filled with tiny flies that bit my butt. But it was the sounds of incoming mortars that shook me the most.
âHey, man, you could be sitting under a tree and if a mortar hits you itâs all over,â Jonesy had said.
At first I thought that I just didnât want to die with my pants down around my ankles. Then I realized that it was the noise, the constant booming, that just filled my guts with a trembling sensation. I knew if I heard the boom I was safe because whatever had exploded hadnât hit me. But it was the idea that at any moment it could be all over, that I could be dead or lying in the sand twisting in agony, that filled me with a terror that I hadnât known before. Terror. It wasnât just being scared. It was afeeling that was taking me over. I knew it but I hoped no one else saw it.
When I came out I saw Jonesy drinking a bottle of water. He had his Kevlar pushed back and the water up to his lips. He held a thumb up to me
Only one person had been shot. All the others had either been burned or hit with shrapnel or flying debris. A thin brown man, bald on top, looked closest to dying but had no visible wounds except for a few spots of blood under his nose. An Iraqi who spoke English said that the man had been sitting on a folding chairwhen a shell hit down the street and the shock of it had picked him up off his chair and thrown him against a wall.
Some of the other wounds were terrible. An old man was lying in a corner on his back. He had a string of beads draped across his palm. His hand and the beads shook uncontrollably. The front of his robe was covered with more blood than anybody was supposed to lose. When the beads fell from his hand I bent over, picked them up, held his wrist, and draped them over his fingers. The old man looked up at me. I donât know if he could see me clearly or not, but he looked.
âBirdy, give me a hand,â Marla called.
She had a little girl, maybe eight or nine, whose leg was bloodied. We carried her over to the aid station our people had set up and laid her on the ground. The front of the little dress she was wearing, it might have been her nightgown, was covered with blood. Marla lifted it to see if the girl was hurt bad. She was. An angry wound seeped blood diagonally across her small chest.
None of it was good. I didnât want to be connected with the wounds, or with the dying. It all looked so much better in the training films, when the figures were just silhouettes flickering across a screen. When it was all just a video game. But up close, the smell of blood was connected with real people. I knew that many of them wouldnât make it. They would be dead before the night came, or surely by the next morning.
Then it was noon and somebody said that the 3 rd was serving hot food down the street. There was still the sound of sporadicgunfire, but it seemed farther away. I looked for Marla and Jonesy and asked if they wanted to go get something to eat. Jonesy did but Marla wanted to help the medics. I thought of staying, too, but I went for breakfast instead.
We lined up with the guys from the 3 rd , had scrambled eggs and sausages. The military cooks were actually using a local Iraqi guy to help them. Me and Jonesy sat down and ate. We took some eggs and coffee back to Marla. Her face was pale with the strain of the work. She ate the eggs on the edge of a cot in which an Iraqi woman was lying. The woman, dressed in black, was facing the wall.
âShe okay?â I asked Marla.
âWhat do you think?â she answered.
The portable toilet facilities stunk and the small cabin was filled with tiny flies that bit my butt. But it was the sounds of incoming mortars that shook me the most.
âHey, man, you could be sitting under a tree and if a mortar hits you itâs all over,â Jonesy had said.
At first I thought that I just didnât want to die with my pants down around my ankles. Then I realized that it was the noise, the constant booming, that just filled my guts with a trembling sensation. I knew if I heard the boom I was safe because whatever had exploded hadnât hit me. But it was the idea that at any moment it could be all over, that I could be dead or lying in the sand twisting in agony, that filled me with a terror that I hadnât known before. Terror. It wasnât just being scared. It was afeeling that was taking me over. I knew it but I hoped no one else saw it.
When I came out I saw Jonesy drinking a bottle of water. He had his Kevlar pushed back and the water up to his lips. He held a thumb up to me